


Depression Understood

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bad Flirting, Depression, Flirting, M/M, Murder, PTSD, Pining, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2654624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is running a social experiment by talking to people on a help line. He falls for one of the people who calls in but has no idea what to do about it, especially when he confesses to murder. (No sex, rating is M due to other content.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Depression Understood

CHAPTER 1

Sherlock sighed and rubbed at his forehead. After a week on the phones he couldn’t understand why these people didn’t  _do_  something about being miserable. The problem was consistently dull, but he  _had_  to fill in this gap in his knowledge of crime motivation. People routinely killed themselves and others due to depression and anxiety, but Sherlock didn’t understand _why_. He cured his misery with drugs or cases; there was no reason to  _stay_ miserable. Suicide clearly didn’t solve depression, and he was reliably informed by murderers (including a few serial murderers) that killing someone didn’t cure depression. So why commit to such a very permanent thing when half the people who performed those acts couldn’t commit to showering daily?

His phone rang. Sherlock hit the button and tried not to sound as if he _wanted_  the person on the other end to kill him or herself.

“Depression Understood, we understand your pain. How can I help you?”

“Ummm, hi…”

The man on the phone stuttered to a stop after that truly  _inspiring_ opening. Sherlock failed to hold back his sigh and the person on the other end echoed it.

“I bet this is a really annoying job,” The man surprised him by saying.

“You have  _no_  idea,” Sherlock replied miserably. He was surprised by a light laugh.

“Tell me about it.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I want someone to talk to and I think you’d prefer to be talking than listening.”

“That’s… a surprisingly astute deduction.”

“Deduction? Nah. Your voice is dripping it. Obvious really. You’ve got a parade voice anyway. Go on. Tell me about your shit job.”

Sherlock went off like a shot, whinging for ten minutes on the misery of miserable people. It was all the stuff they told him  _never_  to say. He usually stayed silent during these calls and then settled for giving them whatever relevant deduction he’d made in the form of advice, modifying it in what he was certain was an absolutely award-winning bit of acting. When he explained this to the man on the phone the result was that he asked to be deduced himself.

Sherlock eagerly jumped on it, filling him in on everything he’d learned.

“You’re male, obviously, late thirties to early forties, raised just outside London and schooled within her, with a military history in either profession or family. Favour the former; it explains the recent trauma you’ve suffered, your depression, your absence from London for so many years, and your loneliness. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“How… how does profession explain all that? How did you even  _know_  all that? How did you know I was  _overseas_?”

“Obvious. You called my voice a ‘parade’ voice which points to military influence. Most would call it a ‘speech’ voice or something of the like; deep, sexy, sensual, and sinful has also been readily used, but you’re either heterosexual or not blatantly sexual so you went with ‘parade’. Your age I deduced by your speech pattern. Your past addresses by your accent. You don’t know how to deal with your depression- you’re uncomfortable talking about it- so it was clearly recent and therefore set off by a traumatic event. You’re lonely- you wanted someone to talk to and don’t care about what- so you have no friends. You’re also a good listener so you have no reason to  _not_  have friends, therefore you’ve moved recently, but this is the information age so they’re obviously too busy to chat or text you. What sort of person has no friends despite being friendly- or friends who can’t contact him- lives overseas for lengthy periods of time, has recently been traumatized, and is depressed? A soldier shipped home from war. Where is war at now? Afghanistan or Iraq. So. Did I miss anything?”

“Uhm… er… I have a sister?” The man suggested.

“Unimportant. Your sister isn’t in contact with you. You sounded disappointed just mentioning her. Clearly you aren’t close, likely you don’t approve of her in some way.”

There was a prolonged silence on the other end and Sherlock felt that familiar dissatisfaction- that knowledge that once again someone found him freakish or irritating. Then the man spoke again.

“That was… that was fantastic.”

“What?”

“Absolutely brilliant. Really.”

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do people usually say?”

“’Piss off’,” Sherlock explained.

The man laughed, “Listen, I have to go. I’ve got a job interview in an hour. I just might get it now you’ve cheered me up. I’d like to call you again, though. Is there an extension or something?”

“I have a direct line,” Sherlock replied eagerly, and then recited it three times to make sure he got it right before having him repeat it back. The Man on the line kept laughing at him, but it wasn’t in a  _mean_  way, and Sherlock wanted to hear it again.

“I’ll call! I’ll call!” The man laughed, “Goodbye, then. Oh! Wait!”

Sherlock paused, his finger halfway to the button, “Yes?”

“We don’t even know each other’s names.”

Sherlock  _almost_  gave the man his real name, but then he recalled that a quick search online would lead him to the website and that it would ruin his experiment and his chances at being called back.

“Sigerson. James Sigerson.”

“Well, Sigerson, I’m Greg Lestrade. Pleasure talking to you.”

“And to you,” Sherlock replied, and  _meant it_.

CHAPTER 2

“Depression Understood, we understand your pain. How can I help you?”

“I didn’t get the job,” The Man stated. This time he sounded genuinely upset. Sherlock found himself disliking that and frowned in annoyance.

“Then I suppose you’d better apply for another,” Sherlock replied testily.

“Another bad day?” The Man asked.

“They’re  _all_  bad days. I spend my days talking to miserable people about how  _miserable_  they are.”

“That does sound like it sucks,” The Man agreed.

Sherlock’s boss was on his way over, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Sherlock was on thin ice and he knew it, but he was determined to get the man’s _real_  name.

“What’s your name?” Sherlock asked.

“I told you. Greg Lestrade.”

“Not your real name. Quickly now!”

“Sigerson?” The boss asked, his tone ominous, “Is that a personal call?”

“No, sir,” Sherlock replied.

“What?” The Man asked.

“Would you like to talk to him?” Sherlock asked innocently. It was protocol to escalate a call to the boss if it wasn’t going well. Sherlock would get to listen in and  _hopefully_  learn more about the mystery man.

“Transfer him over.”

“My boss wants to talk to you,” Sherlock said softly as the man stormed off.

“Have I gotten you in trouble?” The Man wondered.

“No,” He replied, “It’s just procedure. He’s going to ask what we were talking about. Just tell him what’s bothering you.”

“I want to tell  _you_  what’s bothering me.”

“Bit late this time. Call tomorrow. Same time. Transferring now.”

The call transferred and The Man stumbled through a conversation with his boss, becoming more and more irritated with the man’s mollycoddling until he eventually hung up on him. Sherlock sat at his desk smiling coldly. The Man wanted to talk to  _him_ , not to someone who was going to purr sentimental nonsense in his ear. He wanted  _Sherlock_.

He also had rather legitimate reasons for being depressed, and unlike most of London he was  _trying_  to do something about it. He was trying to find a job and a girlfriend and going to therapy, but things just weren’t working out. He was living in a shitty bedsit with little income and nothing to do except go to job interviews and drink at the local pub. Sherlock was practically twitching now. He  _knew_  he could help this one, but he had to _meet_  him to finish his observations. There was only so much he could pull from a voice on the phone!

As predicted, The Man called back the next day.

“So are you completely disgusted by me now?” He asked miserably, “Did I get you in trouble for hanging up?”

“No and no,” Sherlock replied, “Your real name?”

“Why do you care? I’m just a voice on a phone to you,” He replied, sounding worse and worse.

“You’re more depressed today than yesterday. Something happened?”

“Another botched job interview. I was stupid enough to flirt with the prospective boss. Guess sexual harassment doesn’t seem appealing to a hiring managers.”

“Well, that was supremely stupid of you,” Sherlock admitted, “But you’re a bit desperate, so I can understand why you did it.”

Silence a moment, “Well, I feel loads better now.”

“Good,” Sherlock smiled.

“That was sarcasm,” The Man sighed.

“Oh. I thought it was a rather surprising turnaround.”

The Man chuckled a bit, “You’re refreshing, you know that?”

“Why?”

“You’re so  _honest_.”

“Most people hate that about me.”

“I like it. Makes you easy to talk to. I know you aren’t going to just humour me or say one thing and mean another.”

“That’s not very wanted in this profession,” Sherlock admitted, “But I’m glad it keeps you calling back. Will you have another interview?”

“Believe it or not, that was the last place I could apply to in the whole of London. I’ve been interviewing for a year now and I’ve had no luck. I think I’m going to have to leave London. I can’t take this damn bedsit anymore.”

“I have a room above my flat,” Sherlock stated immediately.

“What?” The Man laughed, “You don’t even know me. I’m… I’m nothing and no one to you. Now we’re going to rent a flat together?”

“I know  _everything_ about you. Or at least most of it.”

“I could be a murderer for all you know,” The Man argued.

Sherlock snorted, “No you couldn’t. I’d know that.”

There was a pause and then the man whispered, as if he’d just realized, “You don’t know my name.”

“No, but that can very  _easily_  be remedied.”

“You could track this number?” He questioned.

“I can’t, actually. It’s blocked for privacy reasons by the company you’re calling. We’d need a court order to trace it,” Sherlock grumbled angrily.

“So… that’d take a while, right?” He asked, a bit breathless.

“Well, yes… why?”

“It’s just… I did something to keep myself… to make myself feel… better, I guess.”

“Better?” Sherlock asked, feeling a clench in his stomach.

“A few times, actually.”

“What did you do?”

“I… I killed people.”

 

CHAPTER 3

“You… what?” Sherlock asked.

“I killed people. Three of them.”

“Three?”

“There was this cabby who was going around killing people. I got in his cab one day and he… well, he didn’t manage to do me in.”

Sherlock’s head was spinning. He’d  _been_  on that case. He’d been close to solving it when the murderer had simply vanished.

“Self defense,” Sherlock stated, the words toppling off his tongue unbidden.

“Not exactly. His gun was fake.”

“He was forcing them at gunpoint?” Sherlock shouted angrily, “That’s so bloody  _dull!”_

The Man laughed, “You  _would_  say that. See, that’s why I’m talking to  _you_ about it. You  _get_  it.”

Sherlock’s boss was headed towards him; he shook his head and gave the man a suitably alarmed look to stall him.

“What about the others?” Sherlock asked.

“The second one was… ummm… I’m trying to recall. Some sort of smuggling ring person. I found her torturing a lady while I was walking one night. They were in the tube tunnels and I was… well, I was looking for trouble, to be honest.”

“You shot her?” Sherlock asked, which took the scowl right off the bosses face.

“Yeah. Long distance. None of her operatives even saw me. Unfortunately one of her flunkies shot the woman and made off with the pin she was wearing. He was shouting about being rich. I think I fucked that one up.”

Sherlock groaned and ran his hand over his face. He’d been on that case as well. Sebastian had been royally pissed that he’d solved it at the expense of two of his staff dying, the murderer being taken out (they’d thought by one of her own)  _and_  the mystery item vanishing.

“Do you want me to hang up?” The Man asked.

“No, keep going. What other crimes have you solved?”

“Solved? I didn’t  _solve_  them… well, I suppose in one sense I did. Ummm… let me remember. A few months ago there was this guy bombing everyone…”

“For the love of all the gods at once!” Sherlock shouted into the phone.

He was greeted by silence. The Man had hung up.

XXX

**Are you still alive? – SH**

**Staying alive is what I do, Sherly.  
Jim Moriarty x.**

**I was informed today that you were killed. – SH**

**You’re losing your touch. Want to borrow mine?  
Jim Moriarty x.**

**What are your plans day after tomorrow? – SH**

**Why? Are you finally asking me out? I thought Sadie Hawkins Day was next month?  
Jim Moriarty x.**

**Very funny. I have information you’re going to want. I can make it worth your while. – SH**

**Your place or mine?  
Jim Moriarty x.**

**You’ve already seen mine. Let’s try yours. – SH**

**Very well. Figure out where I am and I’ll let you in.  
Jim Moriarty x.**

Sherlock paced back and forth in his cluttered flat. It didn’t fit. He’d texted Moriarty and the bastard had replied so he was still around, so there was no way The Man had gotten him. So whom had he been talking about? Who had he killed that was linked to a bomber? Sherlock searched the news again and found nothing. No repeat bombings besides the bomb _threats_  that Moriarty had set up. Except only three of those had made the news, and they’d been reported as gas leaks. Only someone in the government or police force should know that they were bombings… unless of course they weren’t a complete idiot and realized that three explosions in three days was pretty suspicious, but even then it shouldn’t have been obvious until after the third.

Sherlock froze. Greg Lestrade. The Man had given his name as  _Greg Lestrade_.

**Is your first name Greg? – SH**

**Yes. You’ve never bothered to find out? – Lestrade**

**I never had a reason to know. We need to talk about your friends. – SH**

**Why? – Lestrade**

**No way I’m letting you near my friends. – Lestrade**

**Why? - Lestrade**

**Because someone close to you is murdering people and I need to find him. - SH**

 

CHAPTER 4

Lestrade looked awful. They’d gone through everyone Lestrade knew, showing Sherlock picture after picture on phone, Facebook, or photo album. It had to be someone current, someone he’d spoken to about the case. There was virtually no one outside of his department besides Sherlock, and he’d been  _involved_  till the end when Moriarty had blown up the pool just to taunt him. If Mrs. Hudson had still been strapped to that vest…

Sherlock shuddered and pushed that thought out of his head. Moriarty had considered him effectively cowed and ignored him after that. Then he’d stolen the damn crowned jewels and vanished without a trace. Except for his cell phone, which he apparently allowed Sherlock to continue texting just because he’d effectively ‘defeated’ him.

“If it isn’t someone I know, then who is it?”

“Someone attached to Moriarty,” Sherlock sighed, “I think I’m being manipulated.”

“You?” Lestrade asked in shock.

“It’s the only explanation,” Sherlock replied, and then told him about his experiment and the subsequent calls.

“You like this bloke?” Lestrade wondered.

“What? No. No of  _course_  I don’t  _like_  The Man!”

“Then why do you get all doe eyed when you talk about him?”

“I do  _not_  get doe eyed! I don’t even know what that means!”

“Or why you call him ‘The Man’,” Lestrade grinned.

“What has that to do with anything? He’s male and I don’t know his name.”

“Yeah, but you’re putting caps on those words.”

“What? They’re spoken words. You can’t  _see_  caps.”

“Sure you can, and you’re mentally capitalizing ‘The’ and ‘Man’.”

“You… what? No I’m not. That’s ludicrous.”

Lestrade was grinning now, “You have a crush on a hardened criminal!”

“He’s not hard!” Sherlock snapped, and then froze with a look of horror on his face while Lestrade laughed uproariously.

“Either way,” Sherlock replied, clearing his throat once the laughter had died down, “He’ll likely call back tomorrow and then I can try to entice him into meeting up with me when I meet up with Moriarty. He’ll want to finish what he started. I’m sure of that much.”

“You didn’t think he was a murderer when this started…”

“Vigilante. He’s a vigilante, not a murderer. The only people he killed were killers.”

“That you  _know_  of,” Lestrade replied, “And besides, that doesn’t mean ‘murderer’ doesn’t apply here.”

“Suit yourself,” Sherlock replied with an arrogant sniff, “But I’d rather him be on your team than  _Anderson_.”

XXX

He didn’t call the next day. Sherlock sat at work positively  _twitching_  until his shift ended. Then he headed home and posted on his website just in case The Man was a plant by Moriarty. He was sure he’d get the message. He was also sure that The Man wasn’t who  _Moriarty_  thought he was. He was certain- he  _needed_  to believe- that The Man wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer.

**Greg Lestrade meet me at Moriarty’s tomorrow for tea. – Sigerson**

 

CHAPTER 5

Sherlock slipped into the building, shaking his head at the simplicity of it all. Professor Richard Brook. Moriarty had been hiding in plain sight, he even had his own website with his face posted everywhere. He taught acting classes at the same damn University Sherlock had graduated from; and from that same University he ran a network of mobs and gangs that controlled more than half of Europe and was spreading  _fast_.

Sherlock asked a student where the professor might be found and then headed towards the teacher’s lounge. He rapped at the door and then entered to find Moriarty in a smart suit just about to sit down to tea in a high back leather chair. There were two other teachers in the lounge as well, relaxing before the warm fire and sipping their tea, but Moriarty was well removed from them and isolated by a small wall of papers to deter visitors from interrupting him. When he looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes a flash of surprise crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by amusement.

“Sherlock! Darling! Do join me!” He chirped, and Sherlock shut the door behind him and strode across the room.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting you, Professor?” Sherlock asked.

“Not at all, not at all. Please, sit. I’ll ring for more tea. You should have told me you were coming today, I’d have had it waiting for you!”

“I wanted to cherish the look of surprise on your face,” Sherlock replied coldly.

Moriarty smiled, but this time it was predatory. He was recalling their moment in the pool together. Their almost flirting. Their near death experience. The time he’d  _almost_  caught Moriarty… and almost died. So many near misses it was practically dripping with foreshadowing. Except the flirting really was over, because Sherlock had found someone just a tad more fascinating than a criminal who was capable of outsmarting Sherlock Holmes.

“Who is he?” Sherlock asked, “I want a name.”

Moriarty’s face showed confusion, “Sorry?”

“The Man.”

“ _The_   _Man?”_ Moriarty asked, “In caps? Why do I feel like we’re not talking about the government?”

“Because I call him big brother. Literally. And why does everyone  _insist_ I’m capitalizing that moniker? Stop playing, you know whom I mean and I want a name. I’ll pay whatever ridiculous price you want for it.”

“Sorry, darling, but you’ll have to be more specific,” Moriarty sighed as though disgusted and motioned to Sherlock when a student aid showed up with Sherlock’s tea, “I do know  _ever_  so many men.”

“This one will have been calling the Depression Understood to taunt me. He mentioned your bombings and…” Sherlock paused, took in Moriarty’s expression and sent him a look of shock, “You don’t know.”

“Not in the slightest,” Moriarty replied casually, but his voice slowly turned violent as he continued to speak, “So you’re telling me that some unknown factor has taken an interest in me,  _and he has your interest_? Fascinating.”

“He’s aware of you,” Sherlock stated, “And individuals on the police force who I interact with. If he isn’t with you, then I must assume it’s  _me_  he’s stalking.”

“If someone were stalking you I’d know about it,” Moriarty replied with a dismissive wave, “I’ve got someone following you who is  _very_  observant. For an ordinary person.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Moriarty replied with a snort, “He’s not the one flirting with you via suicide threat. I’d know about it. I know  _everything_  about my own people. Ev. Er. Ee. Thing.”

Sherlock sighed in frustration and let a bit of a whine into his voice, “Then who  _is_  it?”

Moriarty shrugged, “One of Big Brother’s tails?”

“Not likely,” Sherlock sighed, “He’s been making unauthorized kills within _your_  network. Mycroft would be aware and he’d have eliminated him. Also he’s been monitoring my calls at the Crisis Center; he’d recognize that voice.”

“Are you  _really_  here just to ask me about some hot new wing in your Mind Palace?” Moriarty asked.

“Afraid so,” Sherlock shrugged, “I have very little evidence on you.”

“Pity,” Moriarty sighed, “I was just starting to find you interesting again.”

“You’ve never  _stopped_  finding me interesting, you just marked me as ‘safe’, which was a decidedly stupid mistake on your part.”

“Sorry, Sherlock,” Moriarty replied with a glare, “I don’t do open relationships. If you’re after this new player you don’t get to flirt with me anymore. Security will see you out.”

Sherlock looked behind him to see two fat men in security uniforms headed his way. Sherlock gave Moriarty an amused look and the man sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Just pretend their intimidating, okay? We both know I could have you shot without you ever see…”

Moriarty froze. His eyes widened. Sherlock gaped at him.

“Sniper,” They both whispered at once.

“Sir?” One of the security guards asked in alarm.

“Dismissed,” Moriarty snapped, waving a hand at the guard, “Go on! Piss off!”

The guards left and Sherlock leaned forward anxiously, “How many do you have?”

“Are you mad? Over a dozen!”

“Stationed nearby?”

“There is always at least one on duty, three in rotation, but they’re my  _most trusted_.”

“Snipers are smart. Sneaky. They know how to hide from each other.”

Moriarty pulled out his mobile and started scanning, “None of my extras are nearby.”

“A sniper doesn’t have to be  _near by_. How long a range is the tracking device you have on your people?”

“I can find any of them  _anywhere_  in the world so long as a satellite is somewhere in range above them.”

“Then you should be able to see who  _isn’t_  nearby.”

“Of course, but the only sniper is Tom! Tom is harmless! He’s even dating your Molly Hooper! They have  _vanilla_ sex!”

Sherlock blinked and shook his head to clear  _that_  horrid thought out of it, “The Man is  _not_  that idiot Tom fellow.”

“Exactly.  _Harmless_.”

“Who is nearby who  _isn’t_  a sniper? One of them might have hidden themselves from you.”

Moriarty gave him a withering look, “I’ve outwitted you. Do you really think I’d miss that one of my men was a sharpshooter in disguise?”

A bullet shattered the nearby window and Sherlock hit the floor, quickly followed by a shocked Moriarty.

“I’m starting to get used to that look. Could you think up another?”

Blind rage had Moriarty scrambling over to attempt to strangle Sherlock while the other two professors shouted for help, one of them intelligently phoning the police. Sherlock struggled with Moriarty for a few seconds before he suddenly went limp on Sherlock’s body. He shoved him aside and stared at the growing pool beneath him. Standing on shaky legs, Sherlock grabbed Moriarty’s phone before standing and waving out the window. He headed outside to wait for Lestrade’s team to arrive.

Lestrade showed up looking fuming mad and snatched the phone out of Sherlock’s hand when he held it out.

“Don’t let it fall asleep!” Sherlock shouted.

“What the FUCK were you doing messaging me on your WEBSITE to meet at MORIARTY’S location with no damn address to follow?! Would it have KILLED YOU to answer your texts?!”

“That message wasn’t for you, and yes, it would have. That phone is Moriarty’s phone and it’s currently pulled up the location of his  _entire network_. I repeat: Do not let it go to sleep. It will lock and I’m almost positive there’s a bomb attached to it.”

Lestrade swore and handed the phone back hurriedly. Sherlock tapped the screen and continued to search through it for The Man while Lestrade started securing the scene and shouting about for someone to find the sniper.

“He’s hundreds of yards from here,” Sherlock scoffed, “You won’t find him by waving about… unless you’d like to be shot too so I can get a proper trajectory on him?”

Lestrade glared at him, “And what’s your suggestion then?”

“Relax, I was joking. He’s finished his mission. Look, I have his name and address here. Tom Birch, Molly’s latest boyfriend. Go pick him up later,” Sherlock replied, waving the phone about, “Now secure the scene. We need to question  _everyone_  here. Anyone working in collaboration is going to sneak by to see if the damage has been done. For the next hour  _everyone_ who pops in for a look gets their name and particulars taken down.”

“I haven’t got the people for that!” Lestrade guffawed.

“The crown jewels were in the late Moriarty’s possession. Now do you have the men?”

Another hour passed and the crowd around the University had become irate at being detained, but Mycroft having called in helicopters had helped a great deal. They were generally awed into submission. Sherlock strode from one side of the campus to the other, trying hard to find The Man amongst all the  _people_  milling about like cattle.

He was growing frustrated and about to start tearing people’s heads off (and demanding their notes) when he saw him. Undoubtedly him. He was _leaning on the murder weapon_.

Sherlock crossed the road quickly and stopped beside the man, pulling out a pad of paper as he did so.

“Look at me calmly and act as if you’re answer my questions. Oh, and as if you’ve got nothing to hide,” Sherlock stated, starting to scribble on the paper.

“I  _haven’t_  got anything to hide,” He blinked back innocently.

“Oh, that’s good. Keep that up. Your name,  _Greg_. Your proper one.”

“Sorry, you’ve got the wrong bloke.”

“Don’t play with me. I’ve had a hell of a time finding you, and that shot was too close to home.”

Silence a moment, and then, “I wouldn’t have hit you.”

“You’re that good?”

“ _Very_  good.”

“An air gun. Fascinating.”

“It’s a  _cane_ ,” The man replied, looking uncomfortable.

“Oh, yes, and it looks it, too. So easy to disguise yourself as an invalid. You’re the picture of helpless. No one would ever suspect…”

Sherlock stopped. The anger flashing through those eyes filled Sherlock in. The limp wasn’t fake; it was coming and going because it was _psychosomatic_. Sherlock stammered out an apology while the man took a deep breath and looked a combination of angry and hurt.

“How did you know it was me? I mean, besides the air gun, because it doesn’t just  _look_  like a cane, it is one. So that didn’t tip you off.”

“I told you. I know you. Now tell me your name and move into my flat.”

“Aren’t I going to jail?”

“No. Your name.”

“Why do you need it if you’re not arresting me?”

“You’ve stopped looking innocent. Go back to it. Good. Now.  _Name_.”

“John. John H. Watson.”

“H?”

The man’s eyebrow quirked up, “Got to leave you with  _some_  mystery, don’t I? Don’t want you getting bored.”

“Oh, I  _highly_  doubt that will happen anytime soon. How did you get your information?”

“I was stalking Tom Birch. He was connected to the cabby and everything all from the start. I just followed him and picked off the more important targets.”

Sherlock beamed at him. No wonder he’d kept off Moriarty’s radar! A stalker stalking a stalker!

“I’ll clear you with Lestrade and we can go. Hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Chinese? I know this great little place. You know the key to a good Chinese restaurant is examining the wear on the lower third of the…”

XXX

John followed the man who had somehow rescued him from himself and listened quietly to his babble. Over the course of the next few days he demonstrated to him what a colossal dick he could be- and then healed his leg. Killing bad guys had stopped it from hurting for a few weeks at a time, but Sherlock stopped it from hurting  _forever_  and it didn’t require him to breach his moral code in any way. He was a strange, wonderful, brilliant, ignorant, stubborn, vain, madman, and John loved him for it.

 

<http://www.depression-understood.org/information/ukcrisisline.htm>

UK Crisis Line: 08457 90 90 90

 

US Crisis Line: 1800-273-8255

 

Others: <http://www.depression-understood.org/information/infocontacttext.htm>

 

 

 


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